I have been reading so much. In that way, solitude becomes me: my long commute provides the time and, these days, the inspiration seems endless. I suffer an addict's pull to the written word. Put a page in front of me and I will lose myself in it.
Evenings with the G.I.Q. are spent listening to TMBD fm, as he makes tea and pours wine and puts books and pictures before me in a parade of wonders of the world that ought to be shared. There are dark parts to both of us, dark parts we are not ready to share, but we have this conversation anyway in clippings of cartoons, in catalogues of art, and in the books passed between us, passages read aloud, movies seen (and slept through) in the muted darkness of the Film Forum. Dancing, I continue to fumble, but here I can hold my own.
This affair has been so much of the winter. Pressed up against the icy window of the Hill Country BBQ on 26th Street in December, running for three am trains in a flurry, spiriting champagne onto the PATH train on New Years Eve. And then last night, just when we thought we had cleared the gnarly grove of winter for good, the wind was back on our flanks and the tile floor cold again underfoot. The smell of wool has become a part of us.
The Spring could be good for us, melt the stories we still don't tell each other, coax the buds from my branches, warm the parts I keep on ice. Then again, it could not. But today there was an ease that buoys me. Home tonight, alone in my sweatshirt, candlelight and wine, I smell like him. Which is to say like Lever 2000 soap and garlic and musty paperbacks. And that is nice.
He excites my best sensibilities. And I notice I am listening harder, paying better attention.
Evenings with the G.I.Q. are spent listening to TMBD fm, as he makes tea and pours wine and puts books and pictures before me in a parade of wonders of the world that ought to be shared. There are dark parts to both of us, dark parts we are not ready to share, but we have this conversation anyway in clippings of cartoons, in catalogues of art, and in the books passed between us, passages read aloud, movies seen (and slept through) in the muted darkness of the Film Forum. Dancing, I continue to fumble, but here I can hold my own.
This affair has been so much of the winter. Pressed up against the icy window of the Hill Country BBQ on 26th Street in December, running for three am trains in a flurry, spiriting champagne onto the PATH train on New Years Eve. And then last night, just when we thought we had cleared the gnarly grove of winter for good, the wind was back on our flanks and the tile floor cold again underfoot. The smell of wool has become a part of us.
The Spring could be good for us, melt the stories we still don't tell each other, coax the buds from my branches, warm the parts I keep on ice. Then again, it could not. But today there was an ease that buoys me. Home tonight, alone in my sweatshirt, candlelight and wine, I smell like him. Which is to say like Lever 2000 soap and garlic and musty paperbacks. And that is nice.
He excites my best sensibilities. And I notice I am listening harder, paying better attention.
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